


Kigali Spring

by alizarin_nyc



Category: Angel - Fandom, Buffy
Genre: alizarin's buffy fic, alizarin's original work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-29
Updated: 2005-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:39:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alizarin_nyc/pseuds/alizarin_nyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vampire visits the heart of darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kigali Spring

**Author's Note:**

> An experiment in the Jossverse based on the real-life events of Rwanda, 1995.

  
**Kigali Spring**

Spike said, "bugger off, mate," and Dru fell into his arms in a swoon. Thus ended my brief but brilliant youth as a fledgling vampire with the sweet but crazy woman who insisted I call her "mum." I'd truly loved her cool, pale beauty, but there was nothing for it but to get as far away from Spike as I could, while I could. I knew he was dangerous and Dru made it clear that, unlike her, he wasn't the sharing type.

Besides, I'd always wanted to travel.

I dreamed of Africa. A place where the blood would always be warmed by a sun that I could no longer enjoy myself.

I took circuitous routes to avoid the hot open sky that baked everything into a hard glaze. Slow, overburdened buses clanked and ground their way through the scree by moonlight. I arrived in cities that teemed with organisms; humans, as thin and leathery as horse reins. I slipped through jungles crawling with insect and animal life, but few humans. Fewer still, demons. I worked my way southward, and after many months with sparse meals and no real pleasure, I was ready for some refreshment.

I arrived in Rwanda in the spring of 1994. I had no reason to avoid the capital, Kigali and I stepped into the chaos with impunity.

I soon found there was nowhere to go where gunshots and screams did not pierce my vampiric sensibilities. Once I'd entered, there was no way out; transportation had shut down and the city had been completely forsaken by the world at large and by ordinary rules of civilization.

Little orphans were running about in droves, waiting to be plucked from their misery and terror. But there was no sport in that, and how many succulent babies can one drink over time until a strong desire surfaces for some other bit of fun? I wanted some whiskey in a bar, some nighttime skinny dipping in someone's pool, a bit of conversation about the meaning of life. But the glassy-eyed refugees that marched by were too consumed with death for anything else. I watched them drop from fatigue, from fear, from hunger and from the whispering swings of the Hutu machetes.

The scent of blood was strong. It was followed by the stronger scent of decay. Man's inhumanity to man was a rising wave of brutal colorful death, far more than any one vampire could inflict. I marveled at it.

When I ventured out among them, they shouted epithets at me in French; the only thing I understood was "United Nations" and the vociferous spitting on the ground. Once, I encountered a mob of Hutu interhamwe, electrified with righteous anger. They shot sixteen bullets into my torso and hacked at me with their machetes. They only gave up when I switched to my demonic visage and broke three of their necks in succession with my bare hands. They ran in horror and I shouted after them, "That's right, U.N. voodoo!"

And I still couldn't get my hands on any whiskey.

At night the wounded crawled out from under the dead bodies of their relatives and neighbors and staggered off. There was fire everywhere, crackling, burning and cauterizing the deep wounds that cut families away from their homes. I wandered at night through piles of corpses, stumbled blindly into makeshift graves, skirted the gleeful shouts and drumbeats of men on their rampage.

Eventually, I took refuge in an abandoned red brick house. I lay stunned, next to the crumpled bodies, the parents still clutching their children. They appeared fairly affluent -- their house had been ransacked from top to bottom – but they had beautiful clothing in their closets and each room was carefully decorated with style. When they began to smell too much, I moved into one of the children's rooms, and the depressing yellow color of the walls and the child's abandoned toys added to my lethargy.

I found that I had no desire to add to the killing.

A week went by, then two and I was growing very weak. It was time to venture out for some easy prey. Easy prey; then, with luck, some whiskey to wash down the filth.

Night fell to the sounds of gunfire. Ammunition rounds and rockets sparked overhead like low-shooting stars. I took to the road and began to hunt with very little enthusiasm. After several hours, I came upon a large group of Hutu interhamwe standing around a metal drum filled with fire. They were armed to the teeth, talking in low voices. It wouldn't hurt to eat a few of these soldiers, there were thousands more, and I was sick of their perpetual killings.

Not that I needed a reason to kill anyone I chose. I was a vampire, after all, sired by Drusilla herself, and heir to a long line of vicious blood-sucking fiends. These barbarians would never know what an honor they were about to receive.

I realized that it would be difficult to lure one away. Movement caught my eye and I saw two men a little way off, screened by some brush. I moved closer and could see that they were raping a young woman, who was making a low, keening sound. Her face was covered in blood, several of her fingers broken. One man held her and one did his business. I turned away in disgust. I had seen Dru do some perfectly awful things to people, to children, but this scene chilled me completely. Why was torture and death so much fun with Dru back in London, and this African brutality so sickening?

I closed my eyes and tried to fathom why I -- a vampire -- would be repulsed by such a sight. Dru's stories of Angelus in his day had rivaled this sight many times over. They were thrilling; certainly, I had eaten up her tales of the rape and slaughter of the human race all throughout Europe and begged her to tell me more.

That was it, perhaps. That as a vampire, I could excuse vampiric behavior. But as a vampire, once human, I still could not excuse what man was doing to man.

I crept closer and with stealth and speed was upon the man who was gripping the girl, nearly pulling her arms from their sockets. I twisted his neck until it gave a satisfying pop. The rapist himself looked up in a haze of lust and confusion. It took one punch to knock him unconscious. Before the girl could scream, I put my hand over her mouth and dragged her into the bushes. Her eyes were uncomprehending. I slapped her face repeatedly to keep her from passing out. I realized she could be no more than 17. Her wounds were severe, particularly, a deep red gash across her stomach. She panted in agony.

"You may not understand me, girl, but you will soon. I am going to give you the means for your revenge. It's the least I can do."

I bit down, hard, into her blood-covered neck and drank as deeply and as quickly as I could. I slapped her again and forced her to look into my eyes. She wasn't dead yet, but she was ready. She had no trouble sipping at my torn palm. I laid her down gently in the brush and covered her with loose leaves, far enough away from the Hutu camp. I hoped she'd rise before dawn.

A hand on my shoulder revealed that the Hutu soldier I'd knocked out had come to and he was not pleased. His machete cut into my shoulder before I could move and pain rippled down through my body.

Good, good, I thought. I was coming back for you anyway.

I swung around, and the machete slid out soaked with blood. I reared back and then bit him quickly as he paused in shock. I could hear the men in the camp nearby begin to stir and approach, so I gripped my victim and hauled him toward the fields. I wanted to lure the men away from the body of the girl before she had a chance to rise.

The men gave chase with flashlights and fire. I was revived from my meal, but the soldier was heavy, I was wounded and eventually, I'd have to discard him. He began to beg as I dragged him. I looked down and realized that he, too, was only a teen. He was babbling in French, but I understood the universal language for please don't kill me. I was filled with inexplicable rage and I dropped him, hard, to the ground. How could I judge him? He was exactly like me. Had he any choice in becoming this savage killer? Was I any better when I'd forced myself on a woman before finishing her as Dru looked on with glee?

I backed away from the young man slowly. His fellow soldiers were drawing near, flashlights illuminating the bushes in the field, voices raised to a fever pitch. They'd found the man whose neck I snapped and it fired their bloodlust. They likely suspected Tutsi rebels in their midst and it would only be a matter of time before they'd simply open fire on the brush and hope to hit their enemy.

In the cold moonlight I could see that the youth had tears in his eyes and blood on his lips. His hand still gripped the crude machete. A rattle of gunfire exploded nearby and my eyes darted away. In that moment, he swung the machete.

He knew that survival was only for the survivors. He knew that it was kill or be killed, and he never forgot what that meant. But for an instant, in the midst of all the senseless killing, the blood and brutality, the monstrosity of this child caused me to forget my primal lessons.

The machete sang as it sailed along the horizon, through my neck, and I looked up for the stars as my skin melted away and my skeleton hands scrabbled uselessly in the air. I dissolved to dust with a sigh and blew away on the warm night breeze.

And oddly enough, I was really quite relieved.

**end**


End file.
